


Bog Tea and the Kíli in Black

by spaceylacey83



Series: Hearts and Minds [5]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceylacey83/pseuds/spaceylacey83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo comes down with a nasty cold while in Laketown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bog Tea and the Kíli in Black

“I think I’m ill,” is the first thing Bilbo says to Kíli when he wakes up on the company’s fourth day in Laketown. His voice sounds stuffy, his eyes are swollen, and the look on his face is downright pitiful. His skin is far too warm when Kíli presses the back of his hand to Bilbo’s face and his neck. “Ugh, I knew I felt wrong.”

“Maybe it’s just the mead,” Kíli says, hopefully, even though he rather doubts it. Bilbo answers with a sneeze.

“No, I think that’s just making it worse. I’m never drinking with dwarves again.” Bilbo pouts and hides his face in his pillows and goes quiet. Kíli watches him for a moment then stretches lazily and slings his arm over Bilbo’s back, snuggling in close again. He doesn’t feel that fabulous himself, though he knows that he can blame the majority of his problems on drink. His head hurts and his throat is scratchy from an evening spent singing and shouting over the noise of a bustling tavern, and he feels a little nauseous from all the questionable mead. There is a terrible taste in his dry mouth and, even though water sounds like the best thing in the world right now, his whole body feels heavier than usual and the idea of sitting up and putting his feet on the floor isn’t appealing, at all.

“It was fun last night, though, wasn’t it?” Kíli’s memory of the evening is piecemeal and sketchy this morning, a mass of new names and faces and food and drink and Bilbo dancing in the light of the hearth fire.

“I’m dying,” Bilbo says into the pillows, his voice muffled and pathetic sounding. “I can’t breathe. My _eyes_ hurt.” 

“That bad, is it?” Kíli cannot help a small sympathetic smile, though he does his best to bite it back. He lays there for a moment longer, then he sighs just a bit and presses a quick kiss against Bilbo’s shoulder blade. “Wait here. I’ll go and fetch Oin.”

Getting out of bed is every bit as horrible as Kíli had imagined it would be. The movement makes his head swim so Kíli sits and rubs his eyes and scratches his fingers through his bed hair and he wobbles just a bit when he gets to his feet. He’s not wearing anything so he spends a moment shuffling about the room, nudging at piles of discarded clothing with his toes, searching for the things he’d worn the night previous. Still feeling muzzy and slow, Kíli fishes out a pair of wrinkled, ill-fitting trousers that he manages to get into without actually falling, though he sways a bit when he picks his feet up off the ground and comes rather close. He hears Bilbo snickering at him but the hobbit’s laughter turns into a cough that shakes the whole bed and then into a frustrated groan and Kíli feels too sorry for Bilbo to call him out on it. 

It’s early yet. The sun is only barely up and their temporary home is quiet and dim. Only the warm smells of breakfast cooking betray any signs of life in the house and Kíli follows them out onto the landing and down the stairs, yawning and stretching and still only barely awake. Ori is in the front hall when he gets there, sprawled across a plush chair with his head hanging at an awkward angle and his mouth wide open. Kíli stands there for a moment, fuzzily debating whether it’s worse to wake Ori up when he seems to be sleeping well, or to leave him in such a position for longer than necessary. Just looking at him makes Kíli’s neck ache.

“Ori,” he says, nudging his friend’s shoulder. It takes a few more digs before Ori startles awake with a snort and a cough.

“Oh, ow,” Ori complains as he wakes, wincing and slowly righting himself in the large chair. Kíli watches him with a bit of a grin on his face and doesn’t feel quite so bad about his morning anymore. “Oh, _ow_ , my head. And my neck. My head and my neck. I think I’m going to be ill.” He staggers to his feet and then pushes past Kíli toward the front door. Which is lovely, really. A member of Thorin’s company, out in front of their borrowed home, being sick in the manmade canal. Kíli cringes at the sound of it, then shakes his head and wraps his arms around his midsection, feeling rather queasy himself. 

Oin is already at the breakfast table when Kíli makes it to the dining room, reading from one of Ori’s large new tomes and looking quite like he hadn’t spent the evening drinking far too much thick house brew. Dwalin is across from him, snoozing in his chair in front of a plate of food from which Balin picks idly as he studies Oin’s open book, upside down. The smell of cooked food is nearly overpowering in here and Kíli’s already sensitive stomach turns a little bit.

He has to repeat himself a few times but he manages to relay Bilbo’s symptoms to Oin and then to convince him that it seems like more than overindulgence in mead. Oin’s loud voice rattles around in Kíli’s head and Dwalin is snoring and it takes a great deal of patience on his part not to simply grab the old healer by the arm and pull him upstairs so that he can escape this noisy, smelly room.. 

Bilbo is in the middle of a sneezing fit when they make it back to his bedroom, sitting up in bed with his hands up and his face twisted and they wait out five of them before Bilbo flops back against the pillows with a sigh and a pitiful frown on his face. 

“Head cold,” Oin wonders aloud and he moves closer to press his wizened hands to Bilbo’s forehead. “Head cold and the tavern flu, aye laddie? Poor sot. We’ll have to let them down the Crag and Key know that our dancer won’t be in for a day or so.”

“Oh no, please don’t bring that up,” Bilbo says, pulling the covers up over his head and hiding from the both of them. His voice is muffled when he continues. “Never, never drinking with dwarves again.”

“You just shouldn’t worry about keeping up,” Kíli says, patting the Bilbo-shaped lump in the blankets. “I could have told you that from the start, really.”

“You didn’t.”

“Ah, we were having fun.”

“And now I’m dying.”

Oin lets out a gleeful little cackle and turns his new ear horn Kíli’s way. “Did he say he’s dying?” When Kíli grins and nods his head, Oin laughs again and speaks in what he obviously thinks is a private whisper. “He’s an excitable little fellow, that Baggins.” 

“Yes, he is,” Kíli agrees. He doesn’t miss the quiet sound of Bilbo scoffing at them from beneath the blankets.

Oin does. “You’ll be well again soon, Master Baggins,” he says, and he pats the blankets as well. “We haven’t come this far just to lose our burglar to a sniffle, have we? I think not. A bit of field balm and sage should do the trick.” He gives Kíli an appraising once over, then claps him on the shoulder. “Come. We can head down to the apothecary together.”

“What? Me? Now?” 

“Yes. You. Now. I’ve lost my stock and the kitchen doesn’t keep field balm.”

Kíli casts one desperate look toward the large, soft bed and the contrite looking hobbit now peeking out from his pile of covers. His shoulders sag a bit and he looks down at himself with his wrinkled trousers and bare toes.

“Just let me get dressed,” he says, resigned, and then once more when Oin waves at his horn. “I’ll get dressed!”

When Oin leaves, Kíli crosses the room with a sigh that’s brimming with melodrama and crawls beneath the blankets, pulling them over his head so that he can join Bilbo in the soft filtered light below. They spend a moment simply looking at one another, Bilbo’s expression apologetic, Kíli’s likely verging on pouty. 

“I have to go out,” he says. “Right now. With Oin.”

“I didn’t mean to get you roped into all that,” Bilbo answers. He snuggles close and Kíli puts his arms around him and they lay like that, long enough that Kíli’s drowsiness begins to win out. It’s impossibly comfortable here, between the sheets with Bilbo, even more so now that he knows he can’t stay long. Bilbo doesn’t hurry him, though, and he doesn’t hurry himself and, the next thing he knows, he is waking up again to the sound of knocking at the door.

“You coming, lad? It’s not a pageant we’re going to, now,” Oin calls, sounding huffy and impatient. Kíli swears under his breath and throws the covers back.

“Coming!” Kíli scrambles out of bed, feeling suddenly very wide awake. Bilbo yawns and rolls over onto his back and watches blearily as Kíli hurries to make himself presentable, picking through his clean pile of borrowed finery and pulling tangles out of his hair with his fingers. “I’m nearly dressed!”

“We fell asleep again,” Bilbo observes with another yawn. 

Kíli can’t help but smile a little, despite himself. By the time he has dressed in blue silk and his travel worn boots, pulled an actual comb through his hair, Bilbo has nodded off again, his breathing stuffy and his brow slightly furrowed. He looks miserable, the poor fellow, and Kíli supposes that a trip to the apothecary isn’t really all that big a deal. Especially now that he’s gotten to nap for however long it was that he got to nap.

“You know, lad,” Oin says to him, very seriously, as they leave the house together, his voice quiet and close. Kíli furrows his brow and leans in just a bit. “I’m pleased that you’re happy but I must say your timing is a wee bit… Well, quite a bit inconsiderate, really. And with Master Baggins being ill…”

It takes Kíli a moment but, when he realizes what he’s being accused of, he lets out a startled laugh. “No! I wouldn’t… I fell asleep, Oin, if you must know. I might be drunk still, to be honest.”

Oin gives him a sideways look then harrumphs a little and carries on along the wooden walkway. Kíli sighs and laughs and casts one long look at the sky before following after him.

What a lovely morning this is turning out to be.

***

Bilbo is still sleeping when Kíli returns, bearing a steaming mug full of fragrant tea. He has thrown back all but the lightest of his blankets, but his hair is damp with sweat even now and Kíli wonders if he’ll even want the hot drink. Either way, Kíli knows the stuff works and he knows that Bilbo feels bad so he prods him gently awake and helps him get his pillows propped up against the headboard while Bilbo stretches and looks suspiciously at Oin’s tea.

“What’s that,” he wants to know, but his voice is thick with sleep and cold and it comes out more like, ‘whazat,’ and Kíli snickers openly at him.

“This is sage and field balm. It’s Oin’s answer to a head cold.”

“My Auntie Belba’s cat really likes field balm,” Bilbo answers once he’s a little more fully awake, leaning back against his pillows and taking the mug from Kíli. He brings it up to his nose for a sniff that sounds more stuffy than informative. “If she doesn’t keep it sealed, the cat will eat it and act like it’s gone mad for a little while.” He takes a test sip of the brew and then makes a face. “Ugh, that’s foul.”

“Hm,” Kíli answers, watching him thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t suppose I’ve ever seen a cat.”

“They make me sneeze,” Bilbo admits, frowning a bit as he lifts his mug for another sip. His nose curls at the thought of cats or Oin’s tea, or both. “I say, a bit of sugar wouldn’t hurt this stuff, would it?”

Kíli answers with a small smile, full of affection. “ _I’ve_ never gotten sugar with my medicine. Just drink it quickly and it’ll be over.”

Bilbo takes his advice and Kíli takes a seat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Bilbo too much while he drinks his tea. They chat idly for a while, Kíli more than Bilbo though the hobbit seems a bit more cheerful as the two of them try to work out the later events of their night at the tavern. Kíli’s own memory of the evening fuzzes out soon after his turn on the fiddle, though Bilbo’s seems have gone sooner than that.

“I remember dancing,” Bilbo says and his cheeks, already rather flushed, turn brightly red. “Not much directly before and almost nothing after. I’m rather disappointed that you played the fiddle and I can’t remember it. I might as well have missed it entirely.”

“Oin says we’re under obligation to go back,” Kíli answers, grinning. He can’t remember the request, himself, but the fact that it has been made makes him feel rather proud. “So, perhaps we’ll do it again and you’ll be able to remember because you _won’t_ be trying to keep up drink for drink?”

Before Bilbo can answer, there is a dull banging at the door and the sound of Fíli’s muffled voice. Kíli calls for him to come in but Fíli only shouts unintelligibly through the heavy door and bangs on it again. When Kíli pulls it open for him, his older brother has his hands full, carrying a tray laden with food and holding a few cloth napkins between his teeth, one foot lifted, presumably, to kick at the door again. Kíli snorts and takes the napkins from him, then steps back and allows him into the room with all the lovely smells of breakfast trailing after. These very aromas had turned his stomach earlier but, now that he’s woken up a bit and had a walk they, make it growl a bit instead.

“What’s this,” he asks, following Fíli to the dressing table with the heavy looking tray. Fíli raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, these are sausages. Here’s some fried tomatoes and that’s called porridge…” Kíli rolls his eyes and gives Bilbo a long-suffering look, gesturing back at his brother. Fíli chuckles instead of finishing his tour of the tray and says, “Oin mentioned that the two of you hadn’t had breakfast yet. The lads in the kitchen were getting ready to clean things up so I went ahead and helped myself for yourselves. Bofur’s coming along shortly with coffee.”

In light of this, Bilbo almost sounds guilty when he says, “I’m not sure how much I really want to eat right now.”

Fíli clutches his heart and puts on an exaggerated expression of surprise. “You’re _not_ hungry? You’ve been hungry since I met you. You _are_ ill, aren’t you?”

“Maybe just some porridge,” Kíli suggests, reaching for one of the thick stoneware bowls and breathing in the warm scent of cinnamon and honey. Bilbo frowns uncertainly at the bowl but accepts it after Kíli presses. “Just try. It might help more than you think it will and, if it doesn’t, I’ll leave you be.”

He and Fíli pile onto the foot of the large bed with Bilbo, Kíli balancing a plate of sausages and Fíli clutching a few apples. By the time Bofur appears in the doorway bearing a small coffee tray, they’re having an odd little indoor picnic and Bilbo is listening to Fíli and Kíli with a drowsy smile on his face while they try to out-embarrass each other. Kíli finds himself rather pleased with the situation and with his brother’s gesture, despite the fact that he’s currently halfway through a story that ends with Fíli getting trounced rather thoroughly by a brutish pair of twins from Ered Luin. They haven’t necessarily sat down for a chat about Kíli’s fledgling relationship – for which Kíli is entirely thankful – but Fíli _knows_ and he’s being just as kind to Bilbo as ever. This tacit blessing warms Kíli’s heart more than any words could.

“I think he only did it to impress Alvë, to tell you the truth,” Kíli says, over the clinking sound of Bofur stirring coffee at the dressing table. “I don’t think he thought it through very well, either way. It was the only punch either of us got off and this silly girl is running around, flapping her hands and screaming like that’s ever been useful to anyone.”

Fíli chuckles at the memory. “They blacked my right eye and Kíli’s left,” Fíli says, picking up the story where Kíli had left off. “Our mother teased that between us we had a matched pair. After Thorin talked her down from murdering the lads, at any rate.”

“That’s where you get it, aye,” Bofur says, holding out a cup of coffee for Fíli. “Too much sass for their own good, these lads, haven’t they, Bilbo?” He has a cup for Kíli as well, prepared just the way he always takes it and a cup of tea for Bilbo who doesn’t often take coffee. He has to assure Bilbo that there’s nothing overtly medicinal in the cup but soon they’re all piled up on Bilbo’s bed, eating and talking. The man-sized frame is reaching its capacity now, with three dwarves and one hobbit, but Bilbo seems happily engaged and doesn’t indicate that he wants rid of them. He even eats more of his porridge as the morning rolls on and contributes to the conversation with stories about the Shire. He doesn’t talk about his home very much so Kíli can’t help feeling that there is something very special about it when he does. He doesn’t always follow when Bilbo goes off on tangents about family trees but he likes to listen to him and he likes the rather wistful smile that Bilbo will get when he’s reminiscing. Even though the hobbit, himself, hasn’t mentioned it yet his voice sounds a little clearer and his breathing a little quieter. He still interrupts the conversation with sneezes or great coughing fits that make Kíli wince in sympathy but Oin is no slouch when it comes to herbal medicines, Kíli knows from experience, and his cold remedy seems to be making some headway, at least. 

Fíli passes apple slices around and, after Kíli’s noticed and started looking for it, he seems to share lots of little looks with Bofur, touches his arm or lets their fingers brush. They’ve been quite a bit more… _familiar_ with each other lately but Kíli takes a leaf out of his brother’s book and doesn’t bring it up. It’s open season on Bofur, however, and Kíli wonders whether or not the older dwarf will take him seriously if he tries to play up the overly protective brother shtick. 

All in all, it’s quite pleasant and Bilbo seems to be in a much better mood than before. Kíli’s own mood is much improved, even if he does feel a bit weary still and even though the scratchy feeling in his throat isn’t quite gone yet. The hot coffee is soothing, though, and Fíli’s breakfast tray is slowly emptying, the companionable silences stretching longer.

“Look, we wore him out,” Bofur says, with a nod of his head for Bilbo who is dozing again, the mostly empty bowl of porridge tipping dangerously in his slack fingers. Kíli laughs a little and reaches out to take it from him. “I suppose that’s our signal to get out of here, you reckon?”

“Not in so many words,” Fíli says, with a grin on his face and the three of them work their way of the big soft bed. Bofur gathers the dishes and loads them on the tray, making to carry it back downstairs with them.

“You know,” Kíli says, “that fellow… What’s that smarmy fellow’s name?”

Fíli shrugs. “The Master of Laketown?”

“That fellow sent this whole big serving staff to do things like collect the dishes.”

Fíli waves Kíli off the topic. “He still makes his bed too. It makes him happy, I reckon.”

“I love sleeping,” Bilbo says, mostly into his pillow. “Sleeping in the peace and _quiet_ of this lovely bedroom that I’ll only have for a while longer. While I’m ill.”

So, Kíli shuts up and ushers Fíli and Bofur out of the room before him, dish tray and all. 

***

Bilbo spends a good deal of the day sleeping. He wakes up for lunch and has a bowl of broth and then he wakes up long enough at dinner to tell Kíli that he’ll wring his neck if he wakes him again. So, Kíli ends up in the elegant library after he eats, watching the fire in the hearth and holding his pipe with loose, distracted fingers. He doesn’t fill it or light it because his throat is still scratchy, scratchier than before really, but he holds it because it has become as much an object of comfort as it is a functional item. Fíli and Bofur have disappeared, though Kíli doesn’t think too hard about where they might have wandered off to, and things are winding down after the evening meal. Kíli feels wearier than before and crankier and he’s debating whether or not he should make some attempt to rejoin the lazy social gathering occurring in the dining room downstairs or if he should simply crawl back in bed with Bilbo and go to sleep as well. He is so deeply lost in his own spiral of indolent thoughts, in the flickering dance of the fire, that he doesn’t hear the sound of the door opening or his uncle’s heavy footfalls. When Thorin’s large hand settles on his shoulder, Kíli startles so badly that he whips around and nearly throws his pipe at him.

“Uncle,” he gasps and Thorin gives him an owl-eyed look that slowly settles into curious amusement. “I’m… I’m tired, is all. I might turn in soon.”

“I’d like to speak to you, actually, if you’ve the time.”

“Of course,” Kíli answers, though Thorin’s expression is quite serious now and the idea of a warm bed is much more appealing than whatever grave thoughts have put that look on his uncle’s face. Thorin motions toward one of the plush chairs that Kíli had avoided for fear of dozing off amidst all of the deep cushioning. He sits down with a sigh that Thorin mimics when he takes his own seat and, for a while, they only look at one another and the silence is only filled by the cheerful crackling of the fire. 

“You and Bilbo,” Thorin says, and Kíli’s heart trips a beat or two. His brow furrows and Thorin seems to see the change in him because he pauses just long enough for Kíli to notice that he’s done it. “You’ve grown quite close.”

For one wild moment Kíli considers telling his uncle a lie. It’s a very short-lived moment, though, and a stupid idea, really. Thorin always knows when he’s lying, so he doesn’t often try. That isn’t even counting the fact that he’s fallen asleep in the hobbit’s bed the last four nights in a row.

“Yes,” he says, after a moment, and something in Thorin’s posture seems to loosen at the admission. Kíli wonders if his uncle’s first thought had been that he might lie, as well. “We have.”

Thorin nods his head. For quite a long moment, he stares at the beautifully polished wood beneath their feet and Kíli watches him with a bubble of worry forming in his gut. The relationship in question is… unorthodox at best, as far as the average dwarf is concerned. He doesn’t know anyone, personally, who has ever engaged in a relationship with anyone outside of dwarven society and he’s only ever heard about cousins of cousins of friends doing things even remotely similar. If it happens, it isn’t spoken of, much like the so called battle romances people pretend not to know about but without the tacit acceptance these unions enjoy. Dwarven children are treasures, so long as they are entirely dwarven and close enough for the insular society. It’s all right to work off a little primal frustration with a long beloved male companion, so long as that companion is _Khazâd_ and understands that he is only allowed to be a dalliance, so long as one still puts in the effort of attracting a wife with which to carry on the family line. So long as it isn’t discussed openly. 

“I have no intention of discouraging you,” Thorin says, and Kíli goes just as owl-eyed as Thorin had before. Thorin holds his hand up before Kíli can say anything and he senses a rather _discouraging_ , ‘but,’ coming his way. “But, I imagine that it’ll sound like it, when I say what I’ve come to say.”

Kíli slumps a little in his chair. “All right,” he says, and if his expression betrays any of the anxiety that Thorin’s tone is causing him, it’s only because he’s tired and possibly afflicted by more than a bit too much drink. Thorin is angling for reassuring but Kíli is waiting for the other boot to drop, now, and it doesn’t quite work.

“What I mean to say,” Thorin says and his brow furrows just a bit. He trails off and Kíli is struck by the realization that this conversation is making Thorin just as anxious as it’s making him. Kíli supposes it’s understandable really. That he would grow up and become romantically involved with a hobbit burglar from the Shire likely wasn’t on Thorin’s list of expectations for him. For a dwarf who has spent his life cultivating a generally unflappable image, this adventure has thrown him for a few obvious loops. Kíli wonders, privately, where his bunking with the burglar ranks among these. “We have obligations, is what I mean to say. To our house and, hopefully, to Erebor when all is said and done. I just… I suppose I only want to make sure that you’re mindful of this and that you… Kíli, I don’t want to see this become a problem for you. I want to make sure that you know exactly what it is that you’re getting into.”

Kíli feels rather taken aback. “What I’m… getting into,” he repeats.

Thorin looks nearly apologetic now. “What will you do when we’ve reached our journey’s end? Are you going to convince Bilbo to stay with you under the mountain? You can only imagine the scandal if you were to run away to the Shire, yes? Now imagine the scandal if you brought him to live amongst our people. I have the highest respect for Bilbo Baggins and so will many others if he is able to help us reclaim the mountain but that does not make a union between you proper in the eyes of our people. Or his, by the sound of it. Think of the day when you’ll have to explain to him that you must take a wife. What will you do? These decisions are some that you will have to make if you carry on this way. I won’t presume to tell you how you must decide when the time comes, but I do want you to be prepared for it.”

Kíli doesn’t say anything at first. He’s too busy imagining himself puttering around Bag End, or strolling the curving trails of Hobbiton with Bilbo. It’s a far nicer idea than he’ll ever admit to his uncle but he can’t help thinking of the halls of legend beneath the mountain, the legacy of his forefathers, and playing at dragon slaying with Fíli as a lad. He feels, for the first time, an uncomfortable pull on his heart. He thinks of that smile, the one that Bilbo gets on his face when he starts talking about the Shire, and the idea of ever asking him to really _leave_ , for good, seems like an impossibility. 

So does the idea of marrying one of those soul-draining lasses from _Ered Luin_. The same people who had tittered and giggled at him when he was shamed as a child or called him, ‘elf,’ until they had all grown and things like courting began to take precedence over teasing or playing at games. People who like his family name far better than they like him, looking to, ‘marry above their stations,’ whatever in Durin’s name that really means, discussing his faults and his merits and his prospects as if he were little more than some dumb beast waiting to be purchased from the wranglers. Even just thinking about them darkens Kíli’s mood.

“I’m only the spare, either way,” he says, his tone sour. “You’re certain you shouldn’t be having this conversation with my brother?” Thorin’s expression becomes close and hard to read, though it only takes a few seconds for Kíli to feel badly about snapping in such a way. It isn’t like it’s Fíli’s fault, after all, or Bofur’s and there’s never any good reason to throw your family under the grindstone, like that. 

“Your brother has heard everything I have to say,” Thorin answers, a quiet reprimand clear in his voice. Then his brows quirk and he adds, “Most of it, at any rate. As far as hobbits… I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when – _if_ we ever come to it.” Kíli snorts, despite himself, and Thorin answers with a brief flash of a smirk before he sobers up again. “Do you understand my intentions, at least?”

“I do, I suppose,” Kíli says. “You’ve rather flipped my mood on its head, I have to say.”

A small, familiar smile tugs at the corners of Thorin’s mouth. “My apologies,” he says but his tone is lighter than before.

“You’ve never taken a wife,” Kíli says, after a few moments have passed. 

“You haven’t any sisters to make it up for you,” Thorin returns and Kíli is forced to concede the point. He frowns a little and drops his head against the cushioned chair back.

“Say I don’t care about any of them,” he tries after a moment and, this time, Thorin’s smile is sympathetic. “I can’t think of a single lass left in _Ered Luin_ that I want to spend even one fortnight with, to say nothing of marriage. What if I never find anyone that I…” He trails off. Now that he’s getting ready to ask it, the question sounds childish to him. “That I _like_ , much less love?” 

Thorin huffs out a laugh that has just enough bitterness in it for Kíli to notice. “I wish I could say that mattered to a marriage. Your mother isn’t a fool, however, and she cares very much about you. She wouldn’t choose anyone truly horrible for you. Marriage certainly isn’t _exclusionary_ of love.”

“No one who knows Bilbo could ever really disapprove of him,” Kíli says, and he is almost instantly ashamed of the rather petulant edge to his voice. For his part, Thorin doesn’t (or pretends not to) notice.

“I suppose you’re right. The company holds him in high esteem. As do I.”

“Hm,” Kíli says, still frowning. There is a curious ache in him, deeper inside than his sore throat and a little harder to ignore. The depth of feeling that Bilbo inspires in him, it’s like nothing Kíli has ever known before and it doesn’t seem quite right to him that this can’t be enough. It is strange to think that this earth-shaking new emotion should only be an impediment to proper marriage. “What about Mother,” he asks, a few long, quiet moments later, “and Da? Did they love each other?”

“They did, Kíli, very much,” Thorin says.

Kíli’s throat feels tight all of a sudden. He is too tired for this conversation, now that he really thinks about it, and possibly coming down with the same illness that has Bilbo bedridden. He doesn’t want to think of his mother and father or of marriage. Right now, all Kíli really wants to do is crawl in between the sheets with his hobbit and forget about the things that Thorin has forced him to think about, tonight.

“Will that be all, Uncle?”

Thorin offers him an understanding smile and Kíli tries to let it make him feel better. It almost does. “That will be all, Kíli.”

Bilbo’s bedroom is dark when Kíli makes it there so he strips carelessly out of his fine clothing and works his hair free. The silver ornament he sets on the dressing table and then he slips between the blessedly cool sheets with a weary sigh. Beside him, Bilbo coughs and stirs a bit but he does not wake, even when Kíli presses his hand to Bilbo’s forehead to check his temperature. For a while, Kíli just lays there and watches him doze, Thorin’s words nagging like an itch at the edge of his thought. Bilbo’s features are soft in sleep and so very dear to him and he is struck all over again by the fact that, for all its power, this feeling matters less than Bilbo’s ability to give him a proper _Khazâd_ heir.

“I _know_ I love you,” he whispers to the sleeping hobbit.

“Love you too, Kíl,” Bilbo slurs, though his eyes don’t open and he doesn’t actually seem to be awake.

It makes Kíli smile all the same.

***

Waking the next morning is an entirely unpleasant experience. It happens before the sun has risen, right on the tail end of a dreadful nightmare leftover from the Mirkwood. It’s a toss-up for Kíli whether it’s the throbbing in his head, his inability to draw a proper breath, the painful dryness in throat and mouth, or the fact that he has kicked his covers off and left himself shivering that ends up waking him. He reaches for the bunched up blankets with a bit of a groan and pulls them up to his chin, trying to still the chattering of his teeth.

“Kíli,” Bilbo says, his voice still rough with sickness and sleep. “Are you all right?” Only, Kíli’s answer turns into a coughing fit that leaves his throat feeling raw and Bilbo waits it out with a remorseful expression on his face. “I’ve made you ill, haven’t I,” he says, rather than asks, once the fit is over and Kíli has flopped pitifully onto his belly.

“I suppose,” he says, looking at Bilbo from under the messy fall of his hair. “I would pay coin for water right now, Bilbo,” he says. 

“Wait here,” Bilbo answers. “If you feel anything like I did yesterday, you ought not to get out of bed.”

Kíli is happy to oblige him. Movement makes his head pound, harder than it does while he’s laying still, at any rate, and he intends to do as little of it as possible. He watches listlessly as Bilbo pads over to the dressing table and fills a mug with water from the pitcher there. He turns to come back to the bed, then he pauses and looks back over his shoulder at the pitcher. He ends up wrapping an arm around the base of it and bringing it back with him to the bed as well. Bilbo sways on his feet throughout this affair and he spills a drop or two from the mug on his way back; he doesn’t really look like he feels any better than Kíli does, really. He reckons that Bilbo might ought to stay in bed, himself, but he’s near to desperate for that water. 

“Oh, that’s so much better,” Kíli says, after he’s drained the first mug. Bilbo pours and quickly empties a second mug, himself, and then he leaves the pitcher there on the small table at Kíli’s bedside. “Thanks, Bilbo.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bilbo says, climbing over Kíli to get back to his side of the bed. “I left it on your side. That means I’ll be bothering you when I’m thirsty.” He shows Kíli a tired smile and Kíli offers him one in return, then closes his eyes as Bilbo reaches out to touch his cheek and forehead. “I think you’re feverish,” he says, “but I’m only guessing because _I’m_ feverish and you don’t feel cool to the touch anymore. Oin said he’d stop in to check up first thing this morning. I suppose we’ll have to call for more of that awful tea.”

“S’not so bad,” Kíli defends, though his voice is too slow and heavy to sound very convincing. Bilbo just raises an eyebrow and wrinkles his nose. 

Another round of painful, hacking coughs overtakes Kíli and, by the time he is done, he feels far too hot beneath the blankets. He kicks them off again and rolls onto his side, lifting his sweat damp hair away from his neck with a frustrated groan. For a while, this works. The cool air feels incredible right up until it doesn’t and soon Kíli is beginning to shake in the open air all over again. He goes back and forth like this for a while, blankets on and then off and then on again, but there’s no sleeping this way and, in the end, he kicks down all but the thinnest of the linens and tries to ignore the clammy feeling of the bed sheets around him. Even then, falling back to sleep, as badly as he wants to, is rather difficult with his nose all stopped up and his sore throat going dry every few breaths. He pours another mug from the pitcher and spends a while envying Bilbo, who has already fallen asleep and is snoring quietly into his pillows. It feels like hours before he begins to drift off again and this impression isn’t helped by the fact that the sky outside the large windows has begun to hint at the rising sun. He lays there and watches as the first subtle streaks of crimson spread along the horizon, sleep settling over him like a warm blanket but, just as his eyes are beginning to fall shut, there is a rapping at the door that jerks him back to full wakefulness.

“Oh, for the love of –. Come in!” Raising his voice makes him cough and wakes up Bilbo who groans and hides his head beneath the pillows. When Oin steps through the door, with a mug of his cold remedy in hand, he is _tutting_ at Kíli, already.

“Went and got ourselves sick, aye?”

Oin confirms Kíli’s fever and presses the first mug of tea into his hands before disappearing to fetch another cup for Bilbo. The stuff really does taste terrible, minty but with a musty undertone that bothers Kíli if he thinks about it too much. It smells far better than it tastes, at least, and the fragrant steam seems to clear his stuffy nose, somewhat. 

“I haven’t had this in a while but… You’re right. It’s horrible,” he says, frowning down into the pale green liquid in the mug, not even entirely sure that Bilbo is still awake beneath his pillow. 

“Just drink it quickly, eh,” Bilbo says, without coming out from beneath the pillow or bothering to sound very sorry, at all. Kíli makes a face and then takes his own advice from Bilbo and turns the tea end up until he’s finished. Bilbo is watching by the time he makes it back out of the mug so Kíli pulls a face that makes him chuckle.

“I can breathe a bit now,” Kíli points out, reaching up to tap the right side of his nose. “Out of this side of my nose.”

“Just wait until that side gets dry and starts burning. And the sage makes you cough. So when you’re not coughing from cold, you’re coughing from sage.”

Bilbo is reminding Kíli, point by point, why his colds – thankfully, few and far between as they are – are miserable experiences. “It’s supposed to help, to get all that stuff up and out,” he says but Bilbo only wrinkles his nose again.

“Doesn’t make it an enjoyable experience, nonetheless,” Bilbo says. He waves a hand at Kíli’s empty mug. “You can keep it.”

Kíli raises an eyebrow at Bilbo. “You do realize that he’s bringing _yours_ now, right? You didn’t magically get out of your tea sentence just because _I’m_ ill. Just because _you_ made me ill.”

Bilbo gives him an elbow that’s just barely too rough to be called gentle and Kíli laughs a little and elbows him back. “I wasn’t _aiming_ for that, you old ass,” he says. “Really, this is at least partially your own fault. I’ve been accosted more in the last few days than in my entire life.”

“That’s not my fault either,” Kíli says, but he’s still smiling a bit and blushing a bit too. He snuggles a little closer to Bilbo in the bed and Bilbo curls around him, warm and soft. It’s pleasant and rather comforting and, even though he knows that Oin is meant to come back soon, Kili finds himself wanting to doze back off in Bilbo’s arms. Things are quiet and pleasant and Oin’s tea has granted him a reprieve from the harsh coughing, even if it hasn’t likely put an actual end to it just yet. 

He is somewhere between falling asleep against Bilbo’s fuzzy chest and wondering how long it takes to brew a cup of tea when there is another rapping at the door. Oin is coming through before Kíli or Bilbo have had a chance to actually separate and he gives them a shrewd little glare as he tugs a sniffling Ori into the room after them.  
“Oy, now,” Bilbo says and they both sit up a little bit straighter because Ori is in his borrowed nightshirt, clutching his pillow in one hand and what must be a cup of Oin’s tea in the other. 

“Mind yourself,” Oin says, holding up a hand to silence any protest. “If we can stop this spreading to the whole company, we ought to try. You lads are here, already, so this is as good a sick room as any.” His tone brooks no argument and Bilbo accepts his tea with little more obvious complaint than a wrinkling of his nose.

“We’re…” Kíli trails off and gestures toward the blankets. “Oin, we’re not wearing anything.”

“Modest as a maid,” Oin says, though he does search out a pair of nightshirts for them and toss them toward the bed. The pile of white cloth that lands on Kíli’s head is suspiciously large and he has to roll the sleeves up several times once he’s got it on so that he can use his fingers. He reckons it will do, though, since his aim is only to not be naked while sharing a bed with both his lover and Ori. Ori doesn’t watch them rather awkwardly, shuffling his feet and looking hard into his tea mug until Kíli and Bilbo are dressed. The bed is certainly big enough but Kíli’s elbow room is reduced dramatically once Ori has crawled in beside him. He’s almost dismayed to note that one more dwarf (though not Bombur) could likely be squeezed in with relative ease. By the thoughtful look in Oin’s eyes, he worries the older dwarf is thinking the same thing and Kíli takes just a moment in silent prayer for the health of Thorin’s company.

Soon, the three of them are situated in Bilbo’s big bed and Oin is gone to force his herbal remedy on the rest of the company in an attempt to forestall the sickness. 

“Hello,” Ori says. Kíli waves rather half-heartedly and Bilbo slurps at his tea.

“Morning, Ori,” says the hobbit. “I take it you aren’t feeling well.”

“A bit rough, actually,” Ori says.

The conversation never really takes off though, between the three of them, there isn’t much room for another real quiet moment. If Kíli isn’t coughing, Bilbo is and if Bilbo isn’t then Ori is. The long dress shirt makes Kíli feel hot and uncomfortable but, now that he’s in between two people, his bit of blanket has become communal property and he cannot push it down without stripping the covers off of his bedmates, as well. Kíli is certain that he should feel a great deal more awkward than he does (and he certainly does) but he’s mostly just annoyed and he’s been trying to sleep again since sometime before dawn. If Ori is going to be sharing a bed with them, he’ll have to get used to the fact that Kíli snores at some point. Might as well be now.

***

“You read the great stories and you think to yourself, ‘I want to be as brave and strong as all that.’ People practically tripping over themselves to pay you a little respect because they find you so impressive.”

“You’re perfectly impressive, Ori.”

“Not that sort of impressive. If people ever tell our story, they’ll talk about Thorin’s courage or Gandalf’s magic or Dwalin’s great strength. You. Not the fellow who shot rocks at everything.” Ori punctuates this sorry statement with a high-pitched sneeze that makes the entire bed rattle.

Kíli isn’t entirely certain whether the conversation actually wakes him or if it is only preventing him being able to go back to sleep. He seems to have slept through the effects of his tea, though, and he feels lazy and muzzy after his nap. It’s easy enough to lay here and listen and, besides, Bilbo seems to be playing idly with one stray lock of his hair. It feels quite pleasant, really, and Kíli sees no reason to put an end to it. The hobbit is warm at his back and the nightshirt isn’t quite so bad now that he’s gotten used to it. There is an occasional breath of cool air and the rhythmic slap of water against the pylons that means someone must have opened a window. 

“You’re the best way anyone is ever going to know this story, I think,” Bilbo answers. “You’ve a lovely way with words so maybe you’ll write it yourself. The Next Great Story by Ori the Dwarf, Scribe of the House of the Longbeards. Then you can make yourself as impressive as you please.”

Ori chuckles but he doesn’t say anything and the silence stretches on long enough that Kíli nearly dozes off again. 

“I don’t say this aloud very often,” Ori finally says, and the secretive nature of this admission has Kíli perking up again, “but sometimes I think that what I’d like, better than a hero’s bravery or a hero’s strength, is a hero’s great love. It seems like it would be wonderful to love someone like that. It is, isn’t it?”

 _It is_ , Kíli thinks, though he does nothing to alert them to his eavesdropping.

“It is,” Bilbo says.

***

The next time Kíli wakes, it is because his shoulder is being shaken. His medicine has well and truly worn off by now and his head is pounding and tight with pressure, his throat aching. He could rather use the privy as well but that dull ache feels minor in comparison to the weight of exhaustion still resting on him and, worse, they are on the third floor and the privy is on the first. Waking up and dealing with all of this right now feels like the worst idea in the world so Kíli whines like a fussy child and bats at the bothersome hands.

“Up,” says Fíli. “You’ve already slept through breakfast and lunch. You’re taking some porridge and a bit of Oin’s tea if I have to hold you down and pour it in.”

Kíli scowls and shoves at his messy hair as he sits up but Fíli only offers a matter of fact smile in return for the dark look that Kíli shoots him. 

“When you catch this from us,” Kíli threatens, “I’m going to be cruel to you, as well.”

“Of course, dear brother. Now sit back and take your medicine before it gets cold. Think of how awful it’ll be. And how I’ll still make you drink it.”

“Tastes like it was brewed in Oin’s boot,” Ori grumbles. 

“Didn’t I say you had a lovely way with words,” Bilbo chimes in.

Fíli is a dwarf on a mission, however, and he shushes them as if they’re errant school children. Soon, all three of them are propped up against the headboard taking their medicine and Fíli is watching them with a rather self-satisfied grin on his face. It is fully dark now and one window is still open to the chill breeze and the sounds of living water. Under normal circumstances, it might even be pleasant, tucked into the warm linens with the crisp night air whispering through the room. It’s a little less so in reality with the pressure behind his eyes and the aching, heavy feeling in his head. He doesn’t feel like he’s sitting in an oven anymore, which is nice, but he’s sure he could appreciate this situation a great deal more if he were to be allowed to go back to sleep. 

“Good evening,” Bilbo says, smiling just a bit, when Kíli meets his eyes blearily over the rim of his mug. 

“Did he harass you this way? I’ll have words with him.”

Bilbo starts out laughing, ends up coughing. “No, no. I was already awake. We’ve been poking at you for about five minutes, though. And you refused flat out to wake up for breakfast or lunch.”

“That’s because I’m wearier than I am hungry,” Kíli says but his traitorous belly chooses that moment for a particularly noisy grumble. Fíli snickers at him and Kíli turns his nose up. “And I’d _still_ rather sleep. Consider that. That’s how much I don’t want to be awake right now.”

“This poor brother of mine,” Fíli says. “You see this, Bilbo? He always acts like this when he’s ill. Hates the world.”

“To be fair,” Bilbo says, with a bit of a fond smile for Kíli who can’t help but return it, “I _did_ threaten to strangle Kíli just yesterday.”

Once the tea is gone, Fíli passes out bowls of broth, each with a few fluffy dumplings floating around in it. The stuff goes down easily enough and tastes good enough and the dumplings aren’t too heavy in his stomach. About halfway through, though, his need for the privy reasserts itself and Kíli realizes, with no small amount of dismay, that he’s going to have to actually get out of bed.

“Take this from me,” he says, holding the bowl out toward Bilbo. “Need the privy.” Bilbo takes the bowl from Kíli and Fíli takes it from Bilbo while Kíli works his way out from under the blankets and down off the foot of the bed. The movement makes his head throb and his vision swim and Kíli stands there for a moment to get his feet properly under him. The nightshirt, which had been perfectly appropriate when he only wanted something to cover himself with, is quite obviously too large for him and Kíli frowns a little and kicks at the pile of white cloth pooling at his feet.

“All right, there, Kíli,” his brother asks and, when Kíli looks back at him, Fíli looks so properly worried for him that anyone who hasn’t spent the last seventy some years with him might miss the fact that he is trying not to grin. He probably does make a sight in the too big nightshirt but Kíli only huffs and gathers the material up in his arms so that he can walk.

“All right,” he answers and he heads for the stairs down. Fíli follows him out and Kíli looks back, eyebrows raised. “I said I was all right. Don’t need an escort to the privy.”

Fíli raises his own eyebrows. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m only fetching a book for Ori, isn’t it?”

“Ah. So you’ll have an excuse to not escort me back up,” Kíli observes, sardonically. His head throbs all over again with each step and his nose has decided, now that he is upright, that it needs to run. The nightshirt is bothersome and big and Kíli feels, rather embarrassingly, like some overdressed matron holding her many skirts out of the way.

“Nonsense,” Fíli says. Despite this, and the fact that Kíli’s going is rather slow, he remains a few steps behind all the way down to the first floor.

Kíli finishes his business in the privy as quickly as he can, though there is one heart stopping moment where he worries that the hem of his ridiculous shirt has gotten in the way. The white fabric is still white when Kíli lifts it for inspection, though, so he ducks back out of the room and makes for the stairs, ready to get back off his feet and rest his aching head on the feather pillows. Fíli is there, holding a leather bound book, when he makes it back to the foot of the stairs and Bofur is too, standing close with one bare hand pressed to Fíli’s forehead. They are speaking quietly, Fíli has a fond smile on his face, and they don’t seem to have noticed that Kíli is there, watching them. 

“Are you trying to get sick,” Fíli asks, laughing quietly as Bofur leans in to steal a kiss. He doesn’t push the older dwarf away, though, and the moment feels so tender and private that it makes Kíli feel like an eavesdropper.

“Never,” Bofur answers, his tone exaggerated and grand. “My constitution is hewn from the stone itself.”

“Of course,” Fíli says with a snort and a bit of a grin, “and I’m just some wilting daisy who can’t fight off a cold.”

“I’d never call you wilty,” Bofur says and the two of them press even closer together. Kíli clears his throat before he has a chance to witness anything and Fíli sighs a bit and looks over his shoulder.

“Just on my way back up,” he says and he heads for the stairs as though he hasn’t been hovering in the hall door, spying.

“Making it all right,” Bofur wants to know and Kíli gives him a shrug and a bit of a tired smile on his way up. 

Going up the stairs is a much greater exertion than going down had been and Kíli finds himself alarmingly dizzy about halfway up the second flight. The breath he pulls in feels shallow and unsatisfying, more like he’s run across town than shuffled down the stairs and back. He can hear Fíli’s footsteps on the stairs behind him and, though he doesn’t admit to it aloud, Kíli is actually rather glad for his presence. He feels far too warm all of a sudden; his body feels heavy and slow and the last leg of the trip looks like a lot more trouble than it should.

“Kíli?” Fíli sounds concerned and Kíli opens his mouth to reassure him that he’s generally fine, just tired, but his toes catch on the stair ledge instead and his heart leaps into his throat as his balance is taken right out from under him. He tips forward, letting out a startled yelp, and lands hard on his hands and knees with a crash that sounds like it reverberates through the entire house. “ _Whoa_ , Kíli!”

“You lads all right up there?” Bofur’s voice drifts up to them from the first floor landing and Kíli hears the heavy clump of his boots as he begins to take the stairs up.

“Just had trip up on the stairs,” Fíli calls back down. “All right, brother?” 

“Yes,” Kíli grits out. His knee is throbbing a bit where it has hit a stair’s edge and both of his hands are smarting but each limb seems to be responding mostly as it should. Fíli helps him into a sitting position and then sits beside him on the stairs while he regains his breath and waits for his head to stop spinning. There is an uncomfortable sheen of cold sweat on his body and, for a moment, Kíli only sits there with his eyes closed, holding his hair up off his neck and letting his cheek rest again the cool planks of the stairwell wall while the frantic pounding of his heart slows back down. 

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Fíli points out.

“Feel a bit like it, as well. I’ll be fine, though. Just let me sit for a moment.”

Fíli lets him sit for a few. By the time Bofur joins them, Kíli feels a little bit less like he’s about to fall over or burst into flames. Both of his knees are scuffed and protest rather painfully when Bofur and Fíli help him to his feet but soon, he’s tucked back into bed between Bilbo and Ori and it is so utterly magnificent that Kíli lets out an audible sigh of pleasure as he sinks into the plush bedding. 

“This looked promising,” Fíli says once they are all settled, holding out the leather bound book for Ori to take from him. “Damsels, pirates, nefarious royalty. I thought it might be your cup of tea.”

The book that Fíli has picked out is some adventure tale from the world of men. A young human farm boy, ripped away from the woman he loves by Corsairs, returns after years at sea to find that his love has been betrothed to the prince in his absence. Ori only makes it a few pages in before he asks if he can read aloud and then it only takes one good bout of coughing before Bofur takes the book from him and resumes reading, himself. It’s a rousing adventure, or as rousing as it can be when the majority of its audience is bedridden. There are gripping battles, feats of bravery, and witty repartee; Bofur’s tone grows clearer and more confident as he reads on and soon he has a voice for the friendly giant and the daring man in black, the expert swordsman who only wants to avenge his father, the cruel and manipulative king. He tries out a voice for the princess but it only makes all of them, even Bofur, laugh too hard for the story to carry on.

Ori is the first to fall asleep, still sitting up against the headboard with his chin resting on his chest. Bofur marks their place in the book and puts it on the small bedside table with promises that he and his stone constitution will return to the sickroom the next day to finish the tale. 

“I’m going to be thinking about them all night, now,” Bilbo says, quietly, once Fíli and Bofur have disappeared for the evening. Ori is curled up behind Kíli, snoring lightly, and the moment is as private as any they’ve had all day long. Kíli smiles a bit at this admission and Bilbo carries on. “Isn’t it shameful? A grown hobbit and I’m worried about whether or not true love will overcome.”

Kíli laughs a bit and presses a sleepy kiss to the soft spot under Bilbo’s ear. “I won’t tell a soul,” he whispers, even though the lovers’ plight strikes a bit of a chord in him, as well. He thinks again of his conversation with Thorin in the library and he almost tells Bilbo about it and about all the doubt and worry that it has caused him. In the end, though, he falls asleep curled up with Bilbo while the hobbit’s fingers play in his hair, a gesture that is becoming both familiar and a comfort to Kíli. When he dreams, he is the man in black and Bilbo is his greatest love and the two of them are running away together to seek their happily ever after.

***

Kíli is not at all surprised when Fíli is delivered to the sickroom the next morning, looking stuffy and sleepy. He is, however, rather pleasantly surprised to see Bilbo improved enough to get out of the bed. The hobbit still has a cough and a handkerchief handy, but his fever has broken and he seems eager to be out of the crowded bed, all the same. It is a hopeful sign for Kíli, whose own bout of sickness seems to be following the same pattern.

Oin expressly forbids anyone who hasn’t already entered the sickroom to do so and he brews up a new tea of elderberry buds and coneflowers that he forces the entire company, even Bilbo, to drink. Bofur, who is the only other dwarf beside Oin to spend any time in the sickroom without falling ill, is co-opted as Oin’s assistant and the rest are encouraged to find things to do outside of the house. There are plenty of things to be found, of course, as they are a company of fourteen with little more than their boots and belts and borrowed clothing. There are weapons to be ordered, and armors, tailors to commission. Kíli feels a pang of regret when he realizes that his bow, the beautiful Gondorian recurve bow that Thorin had given him as a boy, is one of these things that needs replacing. The idea of his gift rotting away in the lower reaches of Thranduil’s cave makes Kíli hot with anger, though it is an impotent sort of rage. Nothing could call him back through the Mirkwood or to Thranduil’s door again, not even this most treasured possession.

Fíli, as usual, is a much more amicable patient than his brother. It takes a lot to get Fíli legitimately cranky, though. He’s rather like Thorin, in that regard: he’s cultivated his own stoicism over the years but he’s tempered it with a friendly smile and a reliably diplomatic worldview. He’ll make an impressive king one day, Kíli is certain, if this adventure of theirs manages to go to plan. Until then, however, he’s here sniffling with the others in the sickroom.

“You know,” he says, eyeballing the murky purplish tea in his mug, “this actually tastes _worse_ than the other stuff.” Friendly stoic and royal heir or not, he’s still Kíli’s brother, as well.

“Oin does it on purpose, I think. A bit of chamomile would make this perfectly passable…”

“But of course not. Chamomile? Why chamomile? Why not boot?”

“That’s the difference. The last stuff was brewed _in_ Oin’s boot. This was brewed with pieces of it.”

“It looks like someone strained a _bog_ into my mug.”

They carry on that way for a moment, while Ori drowses between them, their complaints growing more absurd with each turn. Kíli doesn’t even notice that they have an audience until Bilbo has cleared his throat and then they look up to see the hobbit in the doorway with Bofur behind him. Both are rosy cheeked and damp and look like they have just climbed out of a hot bath and the sight of Bilbo looking so well makes Kíli feel a little bit better, himself.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Bofur says, from over Bilbo’s shoulder, his lips quirked in amusement.

Kíli grins and shrugs his shoulders and, beside him, Fíli does the same. Then Fíli sneezes and nearly spills the contents of his mug all over himself. He only gets a few drops on the covers and one purple splash lands on Ori’s cheek, just enough to wake him.

“Ugh, I’m awake,” Ori grumbles, swiping at his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt and pushing himself, reluctantly, into a sitting position. “I’m awake, see?”

Fíli snorts a bit. “I didn’t mean to do it, Ori, you can go back to sleep.”

Ori doesn’t, though. Bofur has their book from the evening previous and everyone, even Ori who struggles to say so around great deep yawn, is eager to see the story through to its end. Bilbo and Bofur pull up chairs and soon they are following along on an adventure that, at points, seems only slightly less desperate than their own. 

***

The third morning after Kíli wakes up ill, he wakes up still rather stuffy but so markedly improved that he feels all fired up to get out of bed and _hungry_ besides that. Fíli and Ori are sleeping still and the dawn beyond the windowpanes is young and pale. Kíli is certain he couldn’t sleep another moment even if he wanted to so he throws the covers back and slips out of the big bed to stretch and sigh happily at how very _good_ he feels this morning. Bilbo has spent the night downstairs in the bed that had originally been set aside for Kíli and, after he spends a moment reveling in his ability to breathe almost freely through his nose, Kíli gathers up his overlong nightshirt and begins to make his way toward Bilbo’s room. He bumps into Oin with his tray of teas on the first floor landing, though, and the old healer checks Kíli’s temperature and asks how he feels, then offers a pleased smile from behind his big gray beard.

“Very good,” Oin says. “There are a few beds free downstairs, with all this shifting we’ve had to do, you ought to take one of those this evening.” He still forces one of the tea mugs on his tray into Kíli’s hands and Kíli waits until he’s passed to make a face over it. “You might see one of the lasses in the kitchen about heating up a bath, as well,” Oin calls from the door to the sickroom. “The rest of us had ours yesterday and you smell a bit ripe, laddie.”

Kíli raises an arm and sniffs at himself once Oin has carried on up the stairs. The feedback from his nose is enough that Kíli just passes Bilbo’s room by altogether and hopes that he won’t offend any of the serving women with his rather impressive stench or his improper state of dress. The women in the kitchen are all incredibly kind to him, though, and no sooner has he poked his head into the room than he’s been sat at the wooden counter with the matronly old cook, Ghala, all in a fuss over him, plying him with breakfast and asking after his health. A lad named Maren is sent to draw the water for his bath and, before long, Kíli has the most substantial meal that he’s seen in days set in front of him and a steaming cup of proper coffee with sugar and fresh cream, as well. Kíli slides the purple tea away from his breakfast as inconspicuously as possible, pulls the coffee closer, and then sets in on his meal of ham and toast and hard-boiled eggs with an enthusiasm he simply hadn’t been able to rally for porridge or broth.

By the time the water for Kíli’s bath is hot, he’s eaten most of the ham off the plate that the kitchen girls end up taking out for his companions. He feels pleasantly full and the coffee is amazing after three days of Oin’s medicinal concoctions. He’s in such a lovely mood that he doesn’t even mind the teasing directed at him when Dwalin, Bifur, Dori, and Gloin spot him in his man-sized nightshirt. There’s a bath waiting for him in the second floor dressing room and the brief smile that Thorin flashes him is warm instead of mocking. Kíli smiles back and offers Thorin a nod then looks around to make sure that there aren’t any of the human servants observing before he drops his bundled nightshirt and offers his laughing elders an exaggerated and unpracticed curtsy. When he heads back up the stairs, it is with a grin on his face and the sound of laughter following him. 

There are two steaming tubs filled in the dressing room when Kíli makes it there and the air is heavy with steam and damp and the inviting scent of expensive soap. It is a well-appointed room, with high windows and folding screens to dress behind, a great carved vanity table with a dainty stool covered in elaborate crochet. There are high stacks of fresh, fluffy white linens and two piles of neatly folded clothes are set on the dressing table. Ori is just getting into one of the tubs himself and he shows Kíli a bright smile when he spots him in the doorway. 

“This is nice, isn’t it,” he asks, and then he spends a minute hoo-ing and ha-ing as he takes a slow and careful seat in the hot water. Kíli snickers at him and pushes the door shut before finally stripping out of the nightshirt that’s been vexing him the last three days. A moment later, he’s making most of the same noises he’d only just laughed at and Ori is laughing at him. The water is hot, but not unbearably so, and he slowly settles in with a blissful sigh. Kíli drops his head against the back rim of the tub and closes his eyes, as the aches and kinks of sleeping for nearly three days begin to melt away. There is a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, Ori is humming and splashing cheerfully in the tub beside him, and it’s quite possibly the second most pleasant experience he’s had since arriving in Laketown.

“This is very nice,” he agrees, almost as an afterthought.

“Back home we always just bathed in the kitchen by the hearth,” Ori says, scruffing at his wet beard. “This feels very fine.” He chatters on for a while, about home and old friends and his mother’s honey cakes. Kíli listens to him with a bit of a smile and half an ear and a nostalgic ache that he does his best to push down. It won’t do any good to start thinking that way or to consider that this is the longest he’s gone without seeing his mother in seventy-seven years. Not with the last and most desperate leg of their journey still ahead of them.

Urging his mind to drift towards more pleasant thoughts, Kíli sighs a little and slides lower in the water. He is gazing lazily at his own toes when the sound of moving water calls his attention and Kíli looks over the rim of his tub as Ori climbs out of his own. 

“I am going to go have breakfast and then I think we’re meant to stop by the tailor’s in the market square,” Ori says from beneath a thick linen bath sheet. “She came by with her girls day before yesterday, so we missed her.” 

The water has cooled off quite a bit before he ever even reaches for the soap and he spends another ten minutes scrubbing away a week’s worth of grime and sweat, washing his hair. The water is dirty by the time he climbs back out of the bath and he’s tempted to call Maren and ask him to ready another. He doesn’t, in the end. Instead, he dries off and pulls on the clothes that have been laid out for him and stomps into his boots, rakes his fingers through his hair one good time.

Bilbo is at the door when Kíli pulls it open to leave, one hand raised to knock. The other is clutching a hairbrush and Kíli’s silver hair ornament and Bilbo smiles when he sees Kíli there and waves these two items. 

“Fíli said you might need help with this,” Bilbo explains and Kíli smiles back, wondering if his brother has also explained the significance of such an act. The only other people – still living, at least – besides Kíli, himself, who have ever laid hands on this ornament are Kíli’s mother, Thorin, and Fíli. As an heirloom, it is priceless and as a sentiment, it is irreplaceable. If Bilbo realizes that he’s holding nearly six hundred years’ worth of Kíli’s family history in the palm of his hand, however, he doesn’t show it and Kíli doesn’t bother pointing it out to him. He only steps back so that Bilbo can join him in the dressing room.

“Here,” Bilbo says and motions for Kíli to take a seat on the padded stool so that he can reach and Kíli does. They smile at each other when their eyes meet in the looking glass and Bilbo passes over the silver ornament for Kíli to hold. The hobbit spends a good deal longer than is likely necessary at the job, though Kíli doesn’t really mind. It feels pleasant and, after a while, Kíli lets his eyes slip shut and simply enjoys it the peace of the moment.

“You know,” he says, once Bilbo has finished and they are watching one another in the mirror again. “There’s a very short list of people that a proper dwarf should allow to touch his hair this way.”

“Oh, is there,” Bilbo answers.

“Absolutely. His mother, his self, his siblings, or his wife.”

Bilbo laughs and this time his reflection’s smile is playful. “Are you trying to imply something, sir?” The look in his eyes is tender now, though, and his hands squeeze Kíli’s shoulders just a bit. Kíli smiles back, wide and happy, the sort of smile he couldn’t ever fight or fake, and he reaches up to cover one of Bilbo’s hands with his own. 

“Only that I think you’re wonderful,” he says and, in that moment, he decides that their journey’s end is no cause for doubt or fear. Whether it is beneath the hard-won mountain or in Bilbo’s Shire, this is what Kíli wants. Assuming he even survives the reclaiming of his peoples’ homeland, no scandal could be worse than giving Bilbo up. The sense of certainty is as warm and good as anything Kíli has ever known and he almost tells Bilbo all about it, about his conversation with Thorin and his worry and, now, his lack of it. Instead, he lifts one of Bilbo’s hands from his shoulder and brings it to his lips for a kiss. “Would you walk with me and Ori to the tailors’? We aren’t quite impressive enough for Thorin’s company, it seems.”

“As you wish,” Bilbo answers and Kíli knows that what he really means is, 'I love you.'

**Author's Note:**

> This thing got _huge_ on me! I was actually in the middle of the fic that will follow this one when I realized that I completely forgot about Bilbo’s bad cold and his, ‘thag you very buch.’ I didn’t actually write all the sick conversation in this story that way (even Tolkien begged off with just one line) but I imagine they sound about like that, here. 
> 
> I’m almost worried that people will think my Thorin is just some anxious guy but he’s really not (I hope). Most of his appearances in this series have been during moments when he’s got to have conversations he’s never really expected he would have to have. His heir is hooking up with one of the redneck dwarves and his spare is banging the burglar. He’s not particularly bothered by this, himself, because Thorin is five years short of being a two hundred year old confirmed bachelor but he knows better than they do about the way these things are treated by dwarven society. Also, he’s going to be following his expected character arc in this series so things with Thorin will get a bit darker as we move out of Laketown.
> 
> I made references here to my fic Brother for Sale, which is my personal kid fic canon, and The Princess Bride, which I think is awesome.
> 
> As always, I really hope you enjoyed this one. I hope that you can see why it took me so long to get it out here and if not I hope you can forgive me.


End file.
